The Mandrake Child
by WindSurfBabe
Summary: If only he'd been mean, she thought. If only he'd been resentful and harsh, she could have done her duty with a clear conscience, and the regret his death had brought would not have been.
1. Prologue

- Prologue -

It was on a rainy day in autumn that the host of the Elvenking rode into the village. Their horses plodded along the uneven road, their walk slow and solemn, and there seemed to be an immeasurable distance between the mud beneath their hooves and the riders they bore. Their silver-grey cloaks glistened with water, their silver eyes were as cold as the sky and just as sorrowful. Droplets ran down the armour that shone dully in the scarce daylight; and yet the elves were not wet, nor did they seem bothered by the weather. The elements did not reach them, and their hearts were encased in ice.

They rode for everyone to see, and those who had sought shelter from the downpour in their homes were drawn out to watch. They stood in doorways, wrapped in shawls and cloaks of wool, and gawked, stepping back if their eyes happened to meet those of the elves. The rain drowned out the whispers of those who did not feel crushed by such a grave procession, and only the clip-clop of the steeds' hooves echoed down the road. The host rode in silence; not a word escaped their pale lips, and their gazes remained fixed on the Elvenking who rode ahead. They progressed without a single unnecessary movement, immobile on their horses; even the wind seemed loath to touch a single strand of their hair.

They stopped in the centre of the village, but did not dismount. The Elvenking looked around the settlement as if awakening from a deep thought. Then his eyes rested on the wooden gallows that stood nearby; the rope creaked softly as the rare gusts of wind made its burden swing, water running in tears down the man's bloated hands.

Briefly closed silver eyes were the only sign of recognition that the King gave. He turned his head slightly, and two of the riders slid to the ground. Their horses did not move as the reins were abandoned on their necks. Even they seemed to feel the weight of the masters' grief.

The two elves walked up the wooden steps. One of them pulled a dagger from his belt and reached out to cut the water-soaked rope. The gesture, swift and efficient, betrayed the resentment that transpired in the ancient eyes of the host. The other shed his cloak and received the weight of the body into its folds. Water cascaded down his face as he covered the face of the dead with a pan of the shimmering shroud. Their gestures careful, almost tender, the elves carried the body of their comrade down the steps and hoisted him onto one of their horses.

The Elvenking turned to the scattered villagers. His eyes scanned the frightened, awed faces and the cowering postures. Even the mayor and those of the men whose voice sounded above the others at the tavern, a mug in their hand and a story of a brawl won on their lips, remained at a cautious distance from the elves while trying to appear dignified and unafraid. But the silver stare pushed their heads down and paralysed their tongues, as an authority older and stronger than their own bent their wills.

"I have come to reclaim the remains of one of my subjects," The King said.

His voice was young and cold. It trickled like the rainwater, like the black streams that ran in the depths of the nearby forest. The words stated rather than accused, as there was no need for that - the presence of the dead lain across the saddle of one of the elves dared the villagers to deny it. The people lowered their eyes. Some shuffled deeper into their homes, disappearing into the forgiving twilight.

"I have come to reclaim his body, as I am in right to do as his King. And, as such, I demand justice in his name, against the one amongst you who dared lay a hand on one belonging to my realm."

_Justice_. The word remained suspended in the moisture of the air around them long after the others had rung out, and the villagers trembled in fear. For the retaliation of the elves would no doubt be terrible indeed; the forest would empty, and its roots would be watered with blood as the valley endured the wrath of the Elvenking.

But before any of the men could speak a young, clear voice rang out down the street.

"It was me."

A girl of barely fifteen winters was walking towards the King. Her dress was old and worn out, patched in places by an unskilled hand. It darkened in the rain, soaking up the water avidly and clinging to the girl's thin frame. Her hair, dark and unruly, framed a face whose only beauty was its youth.

"I killed…" She struggled with the word. "…I killed him."

She stood before the Elvenking, trembling with cold or fear, head hung low. Rain pounded down on her, as though willing to beat her to the ground and into submission; but there was no challenge in her posture, only the quiet resolution of one doomed to the death of her choice. The King's eyes narrowed as he considered the mortal girl before him.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the question cracked like a whip through the whispers of water.

She startled at the attack, but seemed to muster the courage to look up and into his eyes. Her voice was soft but steady as she replied.

"I am the hangman's daughter."


	2. Chapter 1

- Chapter 1 -

_Seven days earlier_

It was the raspy sound of her mother coughing that brought Seren out of her sleep. She opened her eyes, squinting in anticipation against the aggressive daylight; but the shutters were closed, and only a thin ray of dreary sunlight seeped from between the wooden panes. It glistened with tiny particles of dust that whirled in the draft; it was as though she could reach out and _touch_ it, and feel the very warmth of the sun on her skin… Seren sighed. The autumn had barely begun, and already she found it stretching on endlessly.

The coughing became insistent and she threw the thin covers aside, shivering as the air of the room touched her skin and sucked out the warmth built up during the night.

"Sen!" her mother called, her voice cracking as yet another fit interrupted her, and Seren could ignore her duties no longer. She reached out for the shawl that once was her mother's, and padded to the door.

"Sen," her mother smiled from her own bed; and Seren winced inwardly at the sight of her pallor. "Darling, could you get me some water? Please?"

"Yes, mother."

Her voice was dull, resigned. Seren understood that her mother's condition was grave indeed, and that she needed rest and calm. She didn't want to upset her by showing how very thin and sickly she had become. She still remembered her mother as a beautiful woman, full of life and happiness; but sometimes she wondered if those memories had been but another dream. Now Cillan was but a weary spirit trapped in a decaying body. Her smiles grew rare, and her voice faded by the day. Seren knew she was living out the very last days of her life, stretching them with what little strength she still possessed to remain a little longer with her daughter. If only they could have borrowed some time… But the healer had refused to see her. The wife of the death dealer had sealed her fate long ago, the very day she had married for love.

Seren found a pitcher and poured a glass of water. It was cold, and she cupped the glass with both hands, willing her own warmth to seep into the liquid. Cold was dangerous for her mother, she knew it.

"Give it…" Cillan rasped, reaching for the goblet with an emaciated hand, and Seren wrapped the fragile fingers around the cup, supporting it as her mother drank avidly the still icy water. The skin felt hot and dry beneath hers, like parchment that threatened to fall into pieces under her touch. She clung to that hand, pushing down the urge to raise it to her mouth and feel the life still lingering there with her lips. They had so little time…

"I will make you some tea," she muttered.

The sound of the front door creaking on its hinges told her that her father had returned. Heavy boots stomped into the kitchen and were set to rest as he grew aware of the noise. The door of the room opened, and he walked to his wife's side.

"Cillan?" he whispered.

"My love…" She smiled weakly. "How did it go?"

Seren relinquished her mother's hand to her father as he sighed heavily and pulled himself a chair.

"They said there was no work for me… No work whatsoever." He ran his fingers through his greying hair and over his face, as though trying to smooth out the unnumbered worry lines that creased it.

"Orcs do all the killing around here, lately," he grumbled. "Troubled times are no good for my trade, people care little about their own monsters with foreign ones at their doors. And they won't let me touch _honest_ labour, either. Say I'll taint it."

Seren looked away, busying herself with the kettle and the fire. This was indeed ill news; with winter on their tail, they needed all the money and the supplies they could get, and with her mother's state their situation was all the more dire. As her father had said, their times were dark and dangerous. Travelling merchants spoke of orcs roaming the wilderness, and worse beasts prowling the roads at night. If there was no work in the village, her father would have to seek employment elsewhere…

They had said that some unfortunate travellers never even managed to reach the village.

Seren shuddered and reached for the pot that contained the tea. She could see the bottom through the thin layer of shredded leaves it contained.

"We're out of tea," she blurted out.

Her father sighed; glancing to the only chest of the house, he said: "Then I guess we'll soon be out of boots, too."

oOoOo

Seren trudged down the muddy road, hunching her shoulders against the raindrops that exploded from time to time on the exposed skin of her neck. The boots swung as she walked, tied together with the laces that she held in her hand. Seren was loath to touch them any more than necessary; though used to her father's trade, she knew that the boots they earned as a supplement to the pay used to have… well, _feet_ inside them, feet that once walked and danced and then dangled from a wooden pole.

This pair was a fancy one. Embroidered, soft suede that had belonged to a rich merchant who, after a cup too many, had killed a man in a drunken brawl. Murdoch, the mayor of the village, had subsequently seized his possessions and swiftly condemned him to a long drop. The hangman had done his work, and gained the pair of boots in honour of the ancient agreement between his kind and the authorities of any village.

Yet somehow Seren doubted the lovely pair would suffice, this time. In the past, her father had sold the boots he had obtained to travellers pragmatic – or brave – enough to wear the shoes of a dead man, or merchants who cared little where their goods came from. Now the times had changed, and come to a point when a man made a better use of a sword than of footwear. Smiths strived, forging weapons, barbs, spikes and locks; but the gallows stood empty as the corpses massed along the roads.

She glanced at the precious package she carried under her other arm – her lute, lovingly wrapped in her shawl to protect it from the rain. The instrument was beyond old; it had belonged to Seren's great-grandmother, a woman who had died years before she was born but from whom, according to her mother, descended Seren's passion for music. Cillan had taken the instrument with her when she had left her family to marry below her rank, and given it to her daughter as soon as she was strong enough to hold it. Seren had plucked those strings more often than she could remember as she persisted in repeating a tune that would not ring right, oblivious to the numbness in her fingertips. The neck still wore the strings she had tied to fret it. Over the years, the lute had become a part of her – but now that her heart was breaking in sorrow, losing another piece did not hurt that much more.

Seren ducked the rivulets of water that trickled from the awning of the village shop and reached to push the door; the boots knocked ominously against the wood, as though possessing a mind of their own. The shop was dimly lit, the flames of the candles reflecting in the jars, pots and trinkets standing on the numerous shelves. The owner, an emaciated man named Blaine, glanced up from his books and frowned as he recognised her.

"Good morning, sir," Seren began, attempting a curtsey despite her loaded arms.

She wanted to appear polite and to please the merchant, hoping that he would be softened by her good education, and perhaps swayed towards generosity; but she knew all too well that Blaine was a warg amongst the wolves of his trade. He did not reply, eyeing her with open contempt, and Seren quivered under the hard stare. But she remembered her mother, struggling to breathe in her bed, and her father's weary eyes as his life and family crumbled before him.

"I have some goods that may interest you," she said, forcing her feet to move her forward. Untangling her fingers from the laces, she laid the boots on the counter, but Blaine drew back in disgust.

"Take this away!" he spat. "I want none of your scavenger treasures in my shop!"

Seren understood that he would not change his mind, no matter how nice the boots were. There was another approach to be tried, but everything in her upbringing revolted against it. Yet she crushed those thoughts, bringing forth the memories of her mother's emaciated face as a shield against her own conscience.

"They… We did not get them for my father's… work," Seren said, willing her voice into obedience. "They belonged to my mother's family… once."

There, she had lied; but what shame she might have felt was drowned by the hope that her subterfuge could work, and that she could both salvage her lute and get money for medicine and a meal.

Blaine sneered. "A gallows rat, and a liar. Now, you think I don't remember these boots, girl?" He pointed a thin finger to his eye. "Always had the eye for valuable stuff, and it's a damn shame this pair got into your kind's filthy hands." He waved her away. "It's too late… Now get out of my shop!"

"Wait!"

Seren was horrified. What had she done? For all the contempt shown to her and her family over the years, for all the slander heard in the streets, she had just given an excuse. And for what? Her pockets were still empty. Biting back a sob of despair, she stepped forward, clutching her lute against her chest.

"I… I have something else for you."

A few minutes later she was walking out of the healer's house, a small satchel of herbs held tightly in one hand and the boots in another. Mud splashed her dress, raindrops trickled down her back and sent her shivering; but she did not feel the dirt or the cold. Seren had just surrendered the very last piece of her childhood to borrow some time with her mother. It had taken all her strength and all her love to give up this last possession, leaving her drained. She had trampled down the last protests of her deceived desires – for what were her dreams in the face of death? – and now she had nothing more to offer.

The herbs in her hand – a treasure for another – would not last long. And then, when all she had left was bone and flesh and the clothes on her back, what would she sell?

Seren passed the tavern and the seamstress' shop, not bothering to look up at the display of clothes under the awning. She was dressed and relatively warm. It had been long since she had wished anything for her dresses beside those most basic requirements. But as she walked, her shawl pulled closer around her as if to hide the sorry state of her clothing, she heard Gaid, the seamstress, speak to another woman in hushed, frightened tones.

"In the river, you say?" the woman said as she covered her mouth with her hand. "What a horrible death to meet…" She shivered, as though imagining the icy waters of the forest river closing in on her, and looked around in fear. Seren met her eyes, trying not to appear too obvious in her listening. Her mother always welcomed news from the village, even more so now that she was unable to hear them first hand.

"Yes!" Gaid confirmed, but the horror in her voice was laced with glee as she relished her role of gossip. Then, mayhap for propriety's sake, she shook her head. "Poor Marian. She never was very… sensible."

The other woman shuddered. "But still, to drown herself like that… I mean, are you sure it was not…" Her voice dropped even lower. "…a murder?"

Seren slowed down, her interest peaked. One's sorrow could be their fortune, and may the others call them scavengers. In such times, any chance of payment was worth taking, and a hanged criminal meant a warm meal.

"Oh no, she's been seen walking down there with only her nightdress on, hair loose in the wind like the wild thing she always was." This time, Gaid had not bothered to keep the disdain out of her voice. She looked up and saw Seren listening. Her face contorted into a sickly-sweet smile, but Seren heard her add to her friend: "Wild things and corpse-dealers… This is what brought us this darkness. If only we could be rid of such scum once and for all!"


	3. Chapter 2

- Chapter 2 -

Seren stifled a sigh when she opened the small satchel she had bought from the healer. So few herbs were there! Her coins had only sufficed for so much. She glanced to the room where her mother lay. It would have to do, Seren decided. There wasn't much use in wallowing in pointless regrets. Her father had once told her that the weeds that grew under the gallows were the most resistant; and so Seren willed herself to become, refusing to bend in the wind and to break under the frost.

She prepared the medicine, remembering the old woman's lengthy explanation and her precise gestures as she had dosed the herbs. Should she add too much, she would poison her mother's already weak body and spread death in her veins. But should she give in to the impulse to hold back her hand and diminish the dosage, the medicine would be ineffective. Then her money and her efforts would have been wasted. Not so long ago Seren would have shirked such a responsibility; but she was not the same, back then.

"Here, mother," she whispered, crouching by the bed with the cup in her hand.

"My sweet child…" Cillan rasped, reaching out with a trembling hand. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and her damp hair clung to her forehead. The air around her was acidic with sweat and sickness, smothering that familiar, motherly smell that Seren remembered. She flinched as her mother's hand brushed past the proffered cup and went to caress her cheek.

"My sweet daughter." Cillan's laugh merged into a coughing fit that wracked her frail body. "You are taking such good care of me."

_She is delirious_, murmured the newly born adult from Seren's mind, while the child inside screamed: _Do you even see me, mother?_

"You must drink this," she muttered, gently catching her mother's hand and curling it around the cup. "Here, I'll help."

Seren snaked an arm around her mother's shoulders and pulled her up, cautious not to move brusquely; the thin bones in her embrace felt as fragile as twigs. She raised the goblet to Cillan's parched lips, feeling the weight of her mother's grasp as she held on to it rather than held it.

"Sen…"

Her mother's hand slipped from the handle of the cup, but instead of falling limply on the bed, Seren saw it rise once again towards her face. She watched Cillan's arm tremble with the effort, sinews bulging under a translucent skin; the fingers that touched her cheek were skeletal, and the caress light as a ghost's.

"I am sorry," Cillan whispered. "It should not have fallen under your responsibility, to take care of a sick old woman. You should be carefree and happy…" She tried to push a dark lock behind her daughter's ear, but her fingers got caught in the mass of hair like a moth in a web; suspended, helpless and weak. Seren hid her wince of pain as she untangled them. "You are still so young…"

"I will always take care of you, Mother."

Seren realised that her voice cruelly lacked the warmth such an affirmation should possess. Instead of reassurance, the words rang resigned and bitter. But Cillan smiled, bringing the echo of a beauty long devoured by illness to her features.

"Now that will not do." She curled her fingers around those of her daughter, squeezing them to catch Seren's attention. "This is no life for you," she said. "There is a destiny, somewhere out there, waiting to touch your hand and draw you into your path. You will be famous, my child – all will know your name." Her eyes widened as she fought against the coughing fit that scratched its way through her chest. "You will… know… great glory."

As her mother could hold her breath no longer, Seren held her through her fit, closing her eyes as a warm splatter covered her face. The air suddenly smelled like metal, and her world grew narrower still as more time escaped her grasp. Cradling her mother in her arms, she reached out to wipe away the crimson trickle in the corner of Cillan's parched lips.

"Yes, mother," she whispered through the tears that crawled into her eyes, burning as they went. _If only you could be there to see it…_

oOoOo

It was evening when her father returned, rainwater trickling down his old cloak in rivulets and dripping onto the floor. He glanced towards his bed and his gaze softened, his steps becoming surprisingly quiet for his bulk.

"She should sleep through the night," Seren whispered, remembering the words of the healer as she joined her father in their small kitchen.

He nodded, shrugging off the heavy cloak into her arms. She could not recall the first time he had done so – the gesture could seem ordinary, but Seren's hands knew the weight of another cloak. A dark, hooded shroud that turned her father into something different from the man he was; something either high above or well beneath, depending on where one stood.

One day, when she was much younger, he had returned from outside and she had padded to the door to welcome him. Many times she had seen her mother help him with his cloak, a smile on her face upon seeing her husband safe at home. That time she had reached out with her small arms to do the same, imitating the gesture, only to see him freeze in shock. Her mother had stopped just behind her, beaten by Seren to the door; frightened, resigned glances were exchanged. Then her father unclasped the shiny hooks that held the garment in place and, slowly and deliberately, placed the cloak into her arms.

"You are my daughter," he had said. "This is your heritage."

The young Seren had watched the black fabric in her arms with wide eyes, not yet comprehending its meaning and the status of its wearer. And she had never forgotten those words.

_Heritage_. Some called it taint, obscene cupidity that even death did not stop. But Seren knew that though the likes of her father were never liked and even less granted any gratefulness, they were a necessary darkness in people's otherwise clean lives. It was a controlled, domesticated evil. Seren was not proud of what they were – but she knew that someone had to do the job.

She went to hang the old cloak beside its more famous counterpart and returned to the kitchen. Her father sighed as he sank into a chair and ran his calloused hands through his greying hair. "Sit," he instructed.

Seren obeyed, watching him with concern.

"Been as far as Running," he said quietly, glancing towards the room to check that his voice had not awoken his wife. "No work there either."

Seren nodded grimly. She could easily guess all that her father had not said – the insults, the contemptuous looks, the whispers, the feeling of not belonging amongst those of one's kind and the slow sinking in of the belief that people were right. One could only return disheartened and disgusted from such a trip – either with oneself or with the others. Seren suspected that she was too young to have had to notice it, to have forged herself such a cynical view. But that was why she also knew what her father would say next.

"Winter's coming, and…" her father continued, dragging his feet about the subject.

"…You have to leave," she finished and, seeing his eyes widen, she gave a half-hearted shrug. "Esgaroth may be our last chance for some coin, this season. It is a big town, surely they have enough work for another… pair of hands."

He nodded. "I'm leaving in the morning. Journey's easier during the day." Another glance to the sickbed – this time in silent apology.

Seren understood. "She will ask where you are," she said quietly. "I will tell her you will return soon." Leaning forward she lay a hand on her father's much larger one. "Do not worry. I will take good care of her."

_I will manage_. They still had some money from the lute she had sold, although that money would undoubtedly be spent on the medicine. But Seren refused to bend under the blows life had dealt; not while she still had some strength in her hands. There were ways of gaining money she wished not think about, ways much more unspeakable than selling the last token of her mother's heirloom. But when it came down to surviving Seren knew that pride could not outweigh hunger or death – it was cold reason against her own comfort, a luxury one could not always afford. Besides, degradation was easier forgiven than leaving her mother to die.

"Take care of yourself," she whispered, "and come back to us. We will wait for your return."

oOoOo

Heavy pounding on the door tore Seren from her mother's side and she rushed to open, oblivious of the danger. Anything could be better than waking Cillan – her mother needed what blessed rest she had finally managed to find. She swung the door open, a low but sharp word on her lips for the untimely visitor who cared so little for their comfort, and found herself facing the beaten, bleeding face of the mayor Murdoch. Seren gaped at him: soaked up to the bone by the downpour, one eye swollen and closed, he looked anything but the over-proud, dignified man that liked to stride through the village like a Dwarfking in his mine. The flesh around his eye was a rich purple hue, and seemed to throb with blood right beneath the skin; his lower lip was split and dripping blood down the front of the remains of his tunic. His big nose was crooked, as though broken and then unskillfully reset.

And he was not alone. Three other men were standing beside him, all of them images of similar desolation and wearing tangles of scratches across the skin. They were carrying – or rather dragging – a fifth form that hung limply in their none too gentle grasp. The man's hair was long and blond, a shade of golden in the dim lights of the candle. It cascaded down from the back of his neck, hiding his features; but a soft, dripping sound told Seren that he, too, was bleeding.

"Move aside, lass," growled Murdoch, pushing past her as he strode into the house.

Seren narrowed her eyes, seething. "You are in my house!" she hissed, sparing a glance towards her mother's room, as she had each time she spoke since the beginning of Cillan's illness. "State your business, or get out!" Her arm trembled with contained indignation as she pointed to the door; but the men ignored her. Cold, calculating gazes roamed over the small room and looked right through her.

"Where's your cellar?" Murdoch barked and headed towards the rooms, his heavy, muddy boots pounding on the wooden floor.

Snarling, Seren threw herself in front of him, arms outstretched, nails digging into the doorframe. "That way!" she hissed, nodding towards a heavy door. "Go, go away! Leave us alone!" She blanched as her mother moaned behind her, awakening.

"Sen… Sennie, where are you?" came a dry, painful whisper, and Seren lunged to the bed.

"Mother…" she murmured, pushing damp locks from Cillan's sweaty forehead and leaning in so that her mother could not see the scary, angry men that had broken in. "All is well," she chanted, forcing a smile to her lips. "Are you thirsty? Close your eyes. I will bring you some water."

She heard the footsteps march through the kitchen and down the stone steps that led beneath their house, the unconscious man's feet scraping the floor in a plaintive whisper. The racket faded in the depths of the cellar, and Seren rushed to the kitchen for the pitcher and a goblet; her heartbeat frantic, she spared but a glance to the stairs that led into the darkness. Then, closing the door behind her, she kneeled beside the bed and helped her mother swallow the water, wiping her lips with the corner of a sheet. Murdoch and his men did not matter anymore. They could take whatever they wanted for all she cared; her world had shrunk to the halo of the candle beside the bed and the pale, sickly face it cast its light upon.

"All is well," she repeated, running her fingers through her mother's hair, mindful of the knots. "Sleep, now. I am by your side."

She thanked the stars that her mother's eyes had closed and she had drifted off again when the door creaked open, and one of the men pushed his head inside. In contrast to the still, peaceful atmosphere of the room, his mangled face was like a monster invading a peaceful slumber and turning it into a nightmare.

"Murdoch wants to speak with Hengist," he said, looking around the room suspiciously.

Seren shook her head. "He is away," she whispered, still stroking Cillan's hair as though it was a spell she was weaving, one that could bring strength to her mother's weary body. She felt apathetic, unnaturally calm, as though all her strength had been spent in luring her mother back into sleep.

The man looked disappointed. "He's gone," he called out towards the kitchen. Muffled voices responded, and he shrugged. Seren heard little before he pulled the door closed, but what she gathered forced her to rise; cautiously but swiftly she untangled her fingers from her mother's locks and shuffled to the door.

"My father is gone," she said quietly to the surprised men gathered in her kitchen as she closed the door in her back. The soft click rang with finality. "I am in his stead. Deal with me."


	4. Chapter 3

Warning:  there's some stronger language in this chapter. Nothing unusual, but you've been warned.

- Chapter 3 -

Seren's arm trembled only slightly as she gestured the men to the few rickety chairs that surrounded the kitchen table. She could feel their eyes on her, their silent judging; but she had spoken, and now she had to measure up to her words. She pulled herself a chair as well and sank into it with hidden relief - it was much easier to pretend to be assured when one's knees did not tremble with nervousness. For a moment, there was nothing but silence between her and the mayor and his men; silence, and the sound of blood dripping onto her mother's table.

"Got a job for your father," Murdoch eventually said, wiping his broken nose with his sleeve; it left a long trail of half-clotted blood on the fabric, and Seren struggled to tear her eyes from the mess.

She nodded.

"So I understand. But as I said, he is gone for business, and I am in his stead."

Murdoch's men exchanged amused looks, clearly not taking her seriously. They were probably thinking she was playing grown-up, enjoying her father's absence to exert a newfound authority in his name; and they were only partially mistaken. Seren was playing allright. But it was a desperate gamble, a bluff she had to dare lest she wanted to see the potential pay escape her. They would eventually find someone to do their dirty work; someone with a mute conscience to off the poor man quietly. But such a decision was not _right_, it was not in the way of things. It was messy and illegal – and she knew Murdoch liked a semblance of propriety. But if Seren managed to convince them, both parties would be satisfied. She played along, her heart beating wildly in her chest and adrenalin rushing in her veins; she played to win, having nothing to lose.

She eyed the men with her coldest, boldest stare. "You are wasting my time. Speak or leave, and take the poor soul with you."

One of the men laughed. Another – one of the more worse for wear – leapt to his feat, his fists clenched in rage.

"_Poor soul_?" he roared. "I'll show you a fucking poor soul allright! That bastard killed my brother, fucking slaughtered him while he was defenceless!"

"Sit down, Rhett," Murdoch sneered, smiling mockingly at Seren. "If the lass says she can do her father's job, she will have to keep her word."

The one named Rhett slumped back into his chair, but his malevolent gaze did not leave her. Seren swallowed the lump in her throat, hiding her trembling hands under the table.

"You need a job done," she said, her voice steady, the shakiness lurking just beyond that edge of assurance.

She stole one last glance at the closed door to her mother's room, and spared a thought for her father. What would he say? And a part of her replied: what would he, if she did not manage to find some money for her mother's medicine? He had said it was her heritage, that it ran in her blood. Now was the time to live up to that destiny. She needed not know what the man had done, for justice was not her role; only executioner.

"I will do it, you pay. As always."

Murdoch grinned, revealing a range of missing teeth. "Deal. The Council will meet in two days…" He shot a warning look at Rhett, who seemed ready to protest. "…And pronounce the sentence. But don't worry, Rhett. The freak will get what he deserves."

"He better," growled the man, nursing his scorched knuckles. "He killed Pierce. He's a fucking murderer, and such death is still too sweet for him."

Another man scoffed loudly. "She's just a slip of a girl, Rhett. No doubt she'll mess it up and strangle him… It'll be a painful mess."

"Dion, Rhett, enough." Murdoch raised an appeasing, bloody hand; he seemed to be enjoying the situation, the power he possessed over his men. "In two days," he repeated, "It will be sealed. And then," he looked Seren straight in the eye, "the lass will hang him. And I, for one, want to see that."

She held that stare, quivering inside but drawing strength from the prospect of a pay, casting it into a mask of cool indifference. Some money, at last! Decent food, medicine for her mother, and maybe even wood for a fire. They would survive until her father returned. No more begging, no more humiliation.

"In the meantime, the bastard stays here," Murdoch declared, rising heavily and motioning for his men to follow. "Keep him alive – but don't overwork yourself, lass. He's a dead man breathing."

The creaking of chairs drowned out the mumbles of agreement. The man named Dion turned in the doorway, watching her with something akin to pity as he shook his head and said:

"He's in your keeping now, girl. Under your responsibility. Now…" He smiled. "We won't be all that mad if he dies here, you know – no better than what he deserves, to choke in the dirt. But if he escapes…" He pointed a finger at her. "You'll be very sorry. So no soft-hearted moves now. He's a murderer. Remember that."

"I will remember," Seren said through clenched teeth, staring back coldly. "Will that be all?"

Dion laughed. "You got spirit, girl. Too bad you're gallows scum."

And with those words he exited, closing the door softly in his wake and leaving Seren shaking with rage and nerves in the middle of the kitchen.

oOoOo

Seren laid a trembling hand on her mother's sweaty brow, feeling the heat that condensed beneath Cillan's skin, making her toss and turn, restless and burning. Soon the fever would pass; the last scrapes of the medicine would infuse her veins and soothe the heat and the pain. Then Seren would make her eat something – perhaps some nourishing broth, some bread softened in sauce, if she could find some. Her own stomach growled in agreement, reminding her that it had been long since she had eaten.

And then there was the prisoner to feed.

Seren had not known Pierce, Rhett's brother, but she knew the likes of them. Loud, obnoxious men who enjoyed pounding their authority into their inferiors; with words, often, and only rarely with fists – for they were seldom violent on purpose. They seemed deprived of all empathy, all sensitivity to their surroundings, trampling through their lives like a herd of horses – uncaring and free, and ripping the earth open as they went. Seren could not bring herself to regret Pierce's loss, and neither did she try to; time wasted was all it was. Therefore she neither felt disdain nor sympathy for the man who had been handed over to her; but since it was her responsibility that he be brought before justice, even if it was only represented by a noose, she would see that he was well treated before he died.

She returned to the kitchen to shuffle through the pots and shelves, gathering ingredients for the broth, and set to work. Cooking had been another task she had taken over from her mother when she had fallen ill but, unlike music, it did not come naturally. Seren had to concentrate and measure instead of the carefree sprinkling and tossing and mixing her mother had done when she still had enough strength to cook. And though the results were always less… _inspired_, they were nourishing enough; besides, it had been long since anyone in the family had cared about the taste.

Once her mother had eaten and Seren herself had swallowed a bowl of the heterogeneous but nameless mixture, she poured another bowl, waiting until it was warm rather than hot. She picked a wooden spoon and put a piece of hard bread to balance atop the bowl. The food in one hand and a candle in the other, she pushed the door of the cellar open with a foot and started to descend.

Darkness and silence greeted her. A draft from beneath the earth made the candle flicker, reminding Seren of her childhood fears of monsters dwelling there. The air was cold and still, and only her hesitant footsteps echoed in the confined space. Seren wondered briefly whether the man had succumbed to his injuries, and braced herself for the sight of a corpse slumped on the ground of the cellar. She had never seen a dead man up close.

But the prisoner was alive. Kneeling in the dirt, his arms tied in his back, he looked up as she entered. Seren stifled a gasp of horror, and the broth splashed her hand. His face was covered in cuts and bruises, their edges irregular and upturned; the blood they had spewed out had been smeared all over his face by the blows he had received next, and his eyes shone white in the middle of that red skin. He squinted in the light of the candle, immediately wincing as he did so.

"A child?" he rasped. "What are you doing here? Where is your father?"

The man's voice was low and melodious, but broken. He spoke with a lilting accent that Seren had never heard before, and she wondered briefly whether he was a travelling merchant. If he was, he certainly looked nothing like the ones she was used to seeing around the village. He seemed tall and lean, and even crouching in the darkness he gave the impression of bundled up strength and power. But he was bound, and Seren trusted Murdoch and his men to have tied the ropes painfully tight.

Slowly, she walked down the last few steps and set the bowl and the candle onto a crate. "My father is gone for business," she said, trying to sound confident once again. "I am in his stead."

The man frowned. "I do not understand. I was told that this was the executioner's house, and that I would be hanged."

"You are…" Seren hesitated. "Well, that is, when the Council officially pronounces your sentence."

"And who is to carry it out, then?"

"Me."

The man's eyes widened and a grimace of horror painted itself upon his face. "No!" he snarled, suddenly struggling against his bonds. "I will not allow it. If I must die, then let me end it myself. I will not have a child tainting her hands with my blood." His eyes locked with hers as he lashed out once again. "Bring me a blade, little one, and leave me. I will take care of it myself."

Seren backed off in fright at his first outburst. Her feet collided with the first step and, swept off balance, she felt herself pulled downwards. Flailing her arms, she landed on the stairs; stone edges bit dully into her flesh. Crying out in surprise and pain, Seren scrambled away, eyes wide with fear. She darted up the stairs, stumbling on her skirts and reaching out for the doorway and the familiar, comforting light of the kitchen.

She turned around one last time to glance behind her, watching out against all reason for an inexistent chaser; and froze, stricken by the grief she saw in the man's eyes. He had doubled over, his blood-matted hair hanging in clumps before his face, and silent tears streamed down his cheeks. Her heart still beating wildly, Seren leaned against the doorway for support. She was feeling like an intruder, and yet unable to tear her eyes away from the grieving man.

The prisoner's shoulders were shaking lightly with stifled sobs, and his tears were washing away the blood and the grime on his face, revealing youthful features twisted by sorrow. Perhaps did he think her gone, or perhaps he didn't care – for when he opened his eyes again, raising them to the cobweb-covered ceiling, it felt as though he gazed beyond the mouldy stones. From his broken lips spilled words of a language Seren had never heard before, but one made her startle.

"Marian," the man whispered, "Marian."

Seren sagged against the doorframe, clutching the cold wood with stiff, convulsed fingers. It was a sadness she could not comprehend, a sense of loss so overwhelming that she felt her own chest constrict with it. She reached to lay a hand on her heart, gripping her dress and swallowing hard as the inexplicable sorrow rolled over her.

Suddenly the prisoner's eyes blinked into awareness, and focused on her.

"Forgive me, young one," he said. "It was not my intention to scare you, only to spare you a taint you should not have to take on." He lowered his head in apparent submission. "You should leave me. I will not disturb you further."

"You knew her." Seren's words tumbled from her lips, unbidden. "Marian."

He nodded; a shy, soft smile blossomed on his bloodied lips. "I did." His eyes glazed over but he spoke on, staring somewhere behind Seren: "I knew her well. I knew she would not want this. But there is no more Marian in this world. She is not here to hold back my hand anymore."

His features twisted into a mask of rage, white teeth bared in a snarl; but Seren was not afraid. Hypnotized, she watched him toss his hair back with one graceful movement, revealing pointed ears.

"I could not let her murderer walk unpunished."


	5. Chapter 4

- Chapter 4 -

"Marian… She was all I had left," the elf whispered. "My fall, my folly – or so the others used to say. They were right; for all I have ultimately gained is pain and death. But they will never know the ecstasy her love brought me, the thrill of…" He looked up and grimaced. "Forgive me. I shared too much. It is not fitting to embarrass you with such memories."

Seren blinked, breaking the spell. She was huddled on the stairs of the cellar; her skirts were damp beneath her, having absorbed the moisture and chill of the stones, and she suddenly realized she was freezing. But she had no desire to leave – the elf's words had created a web, luring her into a world of wonder and excitement. His eyes were veiled, his tone suggested emotions and passions she had only heard about. Something stirred inside her – something raw and troubling. Seren felt herself grow hot as a blush crept up her cheeks despite the chill of the air. This was not the simple magic of words she had sometimes witnessed in poets and minstrels – an entrancement, rather, primal and calling to things deep and unnamed inside, but also wrong, as though she had intruded on something she should not have seen.

She pulled her arms around her, to both ward off the cold and salvage that precious and strange feeling. She remembered having remained sitting as he had started to speak, but instead of a confession of murder it had been love that had spilled from his lips. His words, though hushed, had rung with passion and venom, and she had begun to comprehend what had pushed him towards the settlement one last time.

"You avenged her, did you not?" she said quietly.

He nodded. "It was the least I could do before I followed her." And, noticing her surprise at these last words, he lifted a bloodied eyebrow. "Elves sometimes die of heartbreak and, I confess, I was expecting such a fate."

"Does it hurt?" she whispered, unable to stop herself. Still he held her in his power, pulling her forward; Seren resisted, though she felt no malign intention in his demeanour.

He smiled sadly. "I would not know… I am to die before my heart is utterly broken by the realization of her death."

Seren startled at the realization. "Oh." Then: "I am sorry."

"I am not discontented…" Cautiously, the elf shifted on his knees, perhaps testing his bonds or flexing stiff hands. He licked his broken lips and cast a hopeful glance towards the bowl of stew that stood on the crate, forgotten.

Seren realized that he must be hungry; this brought her out of her haze once and for all. "Oh, no, you cannot eat it now," she stammered and, picking up the bowl, grimaced: "It is cold… I will heat it up for you." She smiled, eager to please. It felt strange, to speak to a being so legendary and so strange; and stranger even to see it crouching in her cellar, resigned to die.

"You need not trouble yourself," he said softly, tilting his head in submission. "I will accommodate myself very well with what is left. You are too kind to have thought of a mere prisoner in the first place."

The elf did not seem so sorrowful anymore, as though he had accepted his fate, and this upset her more than the prospect of his death. He should not have to await death with tempered impatience; he should not welcome it. He was made to live, to roam free as the songs sang… Legends were made to endure, to allow those like her - those deprived of their own dreams, to wish upon them.

And above all, he should not have to die as a distraction to ignorant villagers, to satiate their hypocritical thirst for violence and revenge.

Seren hurried up the stairs, towards the warmth of the kitchen. What a pity that he should be hanged! For an instant, she imagined a future where he was free to return to his kind to mourn his beloved in peace; where he escaped the captivity of her cellar and fled, far away from her village and the world of men. But as she stepped into the light of the kitchen, those fantasies clattered to the floor. There were lives in the balance; two existences, precious in their own way.

Her mother's uneven breath could be heard from the room, reminding Seren of her worries and duties while down in the darkness, she knew that the elf waited for his fate. He was dependant on her kindness until the final hour came… They both were.

oOoOo

The light from the candles glimmered dully on the edge of the blade that Seren held half-hidden beneath her skirts, the handle clutched firmly in her left hand while the right held out a bowl of warm stew. _An offering of peace of sorts_, she thought, _or a lure_. From afar, she saw the elf sitting on his heels and examining his surroundings with curiosity. If not for the bruises marring his features, one would have thought him a mere visitor that had wandered into her home and then, mistakenly, into her cellar. Seren saw the elf's eyes widen briefly as the flash of light cast by the blade reflected in them, behind the bloodied bangs, and then narrow again in surprised acceptance and… disappointment? But still he lowered his head towards the blow, not bothering to struggle. Perhaps he was thinking that he had misjudged her from the start, that all Men were cruel and treacherous. That what little kindness she had shown was but a lie...

It was not Seren's place or pretention to prove him otherwise. No, not her – not his executioner. But in the little time spent upstairs, in her little corner of the world – a place that felt so shrunken up and dark, of late - she had made a choice, a compromise between her duties and her dreams.

She slid behind him, the stew set in front of his kneeling figure, and bent to cut the bonds that bound him. The ropes and leather belts used to restrain him had bitten deep into the pale flesh. Seren thought briefly that offering to tend to his wounds would be appropriate, if ironic, and certainly rejected with the same polite but distant gentleness. She saw the elf freeze and then slowly pull his arms from behind his back, rubbing his wrists. For an instant, the road to his escape was free, no-one stood between him and his freedom, and yet he did not move from his spot.

His wary gaze followed her as she returned to her watching point on the stairs, finally blocking the way out. Somewhere deep inside, she regretted that he had not caught this opportunity to escape; for what bitter regrets she would thus earn would be drowned by the necessity of repairing the damage, and soon forgotten. It had been long since Seren had had the luxury of wallowing in what could have been.

She sat back down and watched him dig into the stew hungrily, the crude wooden spoon wielded gracefully in his long, agile fingers and contradicting the urgency of his chewing. She had forgotten that his meal meant one less for her. The scene, for all its absurdity, was endearing and, fascinated, Seren allowed her eyes trail down his beardless jaw and down his profile and, as he paused and looked up in puzzlement, she realized that a smile had been tugging on the corners of her mouth.

"Hungry?" she asked unnecessarily. "There is more… Eat your full." She decided she could very well skip her dinner just once more, just to make him comfortable.

He shook his head and set the bowl to the ground. His fingertips touched the side of the recipient and it slid away with a scraping sound.

"I could not. Here I find myself wearing your hospitality down to the last thread, taking your food and your time." Again, that gentle smile graced his features. "Do not trouble yourself over me, child, or over the safety of your… investment. I will not attempt to escape – you have my word."

Again he had used that word – _child_. Had he forgotten what she had vowed to do? That in a matter of days, her small hands – those of a child – would wind the rope around his neck? Seren nodded numbly – she would not tell him that she had planned on locking him up in the cellar for the night. The measure suddenly seemed drastic and unnecessarily cruel; but she could not risk him escaping. Not with mother's life and her father's reputations in the balance.

Could there be another way? A captivity through a promise, perhaps, rather than behind locked doors, an oath on the proverbial honour of the elves?

"You would swear it on _her_ name?" she said.

The elf's eyes flashed with repressed anger and, for a split second, he made to rise from his knees. Seren understood at once that her question had been a grave mistake. She stiffened and prepared to dash up the stairs.

"I have given you my word," he hissed. "It should suffice – or do you Men grant no value to one's word of honour?"

"I cannot allow you to escape," stated Seren simply. "I cannot take that risk. I apologize for my brash words, but understand – your word is not mine to believe."

"Leave me, then," he snapped. "If you cannot understand or sympathize with the pain of losing a loved one, then leave me be until the hour comes; then I will follow you – willingly – to my end. Until then, you have nothing to fear from this elf. Now, kindly remove yourself from my sight."

Seren could feel the blush returning; but this time, it was anger rather than wonder driving her. Anger at herself for her own clumsiness, and spite that her apology had been ignored. She balled her hands into fists and said, "This is my house, master elf. I will do as I please…" Her voice was trembling with the effort of keeping her temper under control. "…and, considering what I have heard and said, I will forgive you your venom."

He tilted his hand to the side. "Ah. I see it now. You have declared yourself mistress of my fate for the simple pleasure of wielding such a power. Such youth, such folly…" He shook his head in apparent disbelief. "Beware, child. Taking lives is not a game you can stop at will. Someday it may find you and crush your perfect little existence… breaking some of that admirable pride in the process."

Seren inhaled sharply. Her head was spinning in rage, blood pounding in her ears at the elf's last words. The urge to scream at him was rising in her throat, choking her. She dug her nails into her palms and suddenly understood the murderous rage that drove men to fight. Some things hurt too badly to be forgiven and forgotten, and made one wish to wipe the words from the offender's lips with a fist. Some things could not be answered otherwise; for no word could undo what had been said. Still, she willed herself to breathe, leaning against the wall and resting her forehead against the cool stone. Nails dug into the moss as the anger subsided, leaving only sorrow and a feeling of emptiness.

"Then wait," she said quietly, pinning the elf down with a cold stare. "It may not take long 'til that day comes. You may even live long enough to see it."

She walked up the stairs on stiff legs, without a glance back. Only as she entered the kitchen did she finally allow herself to express some of the boiling anger inside as she slammed the door on the darkness of the cellar and the one who dwelt there.


	6. Chapter 5

- Chapter 5 -

"What was it, Sen?" whispered Cillan from her position in the bed. "I heard… noise…" A painful-looking fit of cough interrupted her but still she fought to push the words out; as though the cough was a mere nuisance that would pass like a bad dream. It left Seren torn between admiration and annoyance.

"Shh, mother, it was nothing," she soothed, holding a goblet halfway to her mother's lips. "Drink now; it is your remedy."

"It tastes awful," Cillan complained with a weak smile. "But I am sure I heard someone," she insisted, fussing with her covers. "Is it your father? Is he back?"

"No, mother. He is gone to Esgaroth, remember?" Seren peered into her mother's face and, seeing her so pale, added gently: "He will be back soon…"

But Cillan tried to sit up, agitated. "Esgaroth? Why have you not told me? It is so far away! And it is almost winter!"

"Mother!" Seren set down the goblet and pushed on her mother's shoulders, feeling the fragile bones pointing beneath the skin and melted muscle. "Mother, please, calm down. And drink!"

But yet again the goblet was pushed away, face turned away with an expression both resolute and stubborn, like that of a child. Seren felt her patience waning. She resisted, restraining her mother's hands with her left one while raising the remedy to her mouth once again. But a flailing arm impacted with her fingers; the goblet went flying to the floor, metal clanging against wood as the precious liquid trickled onto the ground and seeped between the planks.

"Damn it, mother!" she cried, dropping to her knees; her fingers groped for the cup, scraping up dirt in their haste to salvage whatever remains of the herbal tea were still left in the goblet. Then, wiping her brow in exhaustion, she added: "Father will be back soon. In the meantime, I will take care of you."

"But you are just a child!"

Cillan's eyes seemed focused on a time long past, as she reached out a trembling hand and touched Seren's cheek. "You are a brave little girl, Sen, but you are still so young…"

"Mother."

Seren rose and wiped her hands on her skirts, and went to make another cup of tea. There was almost none left, yet again – the remedy seemed to fade into thin air, disappearing quicker than she could follow. She upturned the satchel into the goblet, shaking it to collect the last leaves stuck in the fabric. She could hear her mother mumble under her breath, straightening the sheets and trying to fix her hair in a surge of energy driven by remembrance of a time long past. It was not a pretty sight – Cillan, once so beautiful and witty, diminished into a bony creature with feverish eyes, smiling happily as she paraded between her memories, fingering them like an old beggar counting his coins. In a way, Seren understood that such golden moments seemed preferable to the harsh reality. Her mother had an escape, an excuse that she could not allow herself to envision. In a way, Seren envied her.

"This time, please drink it. It is all that I have left."

"He should not have gone. What was he thinking, leaving me alone with a baby?" Cillan shook her head and rolled her eyes in apparent annoyance. "And I must feed poor Seren, she must be hungry!"

Seren gasped as her mother swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Mother, no, stay in bed!" She managed to throw the covers over Cillan's thighs, tucking them promptly back into the bed. "You are running a fever… again," she added as her hand touched her mother's forehead. "Please, drink. This will help you sleep."

"Sleep? But I cannot do that, Seren needs me!" Cillan laughed airily. "And then there is dinner to be made, Selvig will be back any time now…"

"Enough!"

Seren's cry cut through the air; it seemed to tear through her mother's web of memories. Cillan startled and shrunk back into the bed, eyes wide with fear.

"Seren?" she asked, her voice shaky. "Seren, where are you?" Then, shivering: "I am cold…"

"Oh, mother."

Seren lunged towards her mother, gathering Cillan in her arms and feeling the frail body tremble in her embrace. "Mother, I am sorry."

Cillan appeared scared now, her breath ragged, and Seren felt guilt gnaw at her. Neither the illness nor the brutal way in which Seren had been robbed of her childhood were her fault. Things had gone wrong, leaving her standing before two divergent paths. Seren had clenched her teeth and chosen duty, reminding herself in the darkest hours of the night that she could not have faced herself again if she had decided otherwise. Still, the sentiment of accomplished duty did not keep one fed or warm.

Seren caressed her mother's damp hair and breathed along with her, as though the even breaths could somehow imprint a rhythm into her mother's tired lungs. The tremors subsided soon enough, and a light hand rose to touch her cheek.

"Don't be angry with me," Cillan whispered, her face scrunched up in worry. "I know I am not a good mother now. I know you have been taking good care of me – better than a girl your age should know or care. Don't be angry with your sick mother. She is growing batty, but she loves you."

Seren gulped down a sob; that would be admitting how hard it was, seeing her mother's fall – the growing decadency of her mind, the slow waning of her strength; but she knew from Cillan's forgiving smile that she had not been fooled.

"I am not angry, mother. I am just tired, is all."

They both must have felt the lie in her words.

"We all are, darling. Nights have grown so long… It has been long since I last saw the sun. But remember what I used to tell you: do not go to sleep with your anger.

Seren nodded. She recalled happier times where she could still indulge in caprices and endure such teachings with a sour face. Now she welcomed them as a sign of remission, all the while forbidding herself to quite believe it.

"Yes, mother," she said quietly as Cillan's eyes dropped shut, probably after the satisfaction of making peace with her daughter. "I remember."

oOoOo

Seren shifted for the umpteenth time, the straw in her mattress crunching under her weight as though in protest. She pulled her covers higher, then pushed them away as she grew too warm; but still sleep eluded her. She had still seethed with rage when she had gone to bed, but darkness and silence had intimidated her grumbling into a silent fuming, and then the anger had faded. She was tired and longed to rest, but what was left of her ire did not let her. Its thorns poked at her, disturbing the soft numbness of slumber. And so, with the fatigue gathered during the day weighing on her shoulders, she tried to sort out her thoughts, since it seemed the only way to find some peace of mind.

The elf had, undoubtedly, sought to offend her. And he had succeeded all too well, although Seren understood that he did not know just how deep his words had cut her. Quick jabs that sprang to mind in an instant of anger; easy release from frustration and a small victory over a vexing opponent – she should know, for she had offended him first, though unwillingly. Seren felt the mocking poke of conscience in her mind: unwillingly, truly? Had she not suspected that Marian's name would be a sensitive subject? Indeed she had, but survival had to come first, before politeness or respect. She had made her decision knowing the risks; therefore she must be at least as guilty as he was.

The score thus settled, Seren turned around, seeking the most comfortable spot of the small mattress. They were quits now, weren't they? _But you are sleeping on straw, under a warm cover_, whispered her conscience, _while the elf waits down in the cellar, in the dark, far from any living soul and further even from a friendly face_. _Locked up, all alone, with only the prospect of death and the memory of angry words to keep him company._ _His body is broken. Sorrow gnaws at his heart, Doubt and Guilt stand at his back, poised executioners of the mind_.

"_Do not go to sleep with your anger."_

oOoOo

And so it was with a weary heart that she finally pushed the door open again and peered into the darkness. The cellar was silent, and not even the elf's breath could be heard, so that for an instant Seren worried that something might have happened to her prisoner. Her trembling hand holding a candle warded off the shadows as she began her descent, until the light fell upon the sitting form. The elf looked up, squinting his eyes against the light, and licked his lips.

"My name is Seren."

Her knees sank slightly into the earth as she kneeled before him, a hand on her heart but observing a cautious distance in case his anger, unlike hers, had remained fresh.

"I am sorry for what I said earlier – my words have caused you pain, I realize that. As you can see, I am young." She swept her arm to gesture at herself, a bitter smile on her lips. "Please forgive me on account of my inexperience. I want you to know that I hold no grudge against you or those of your kind; and I am sorry for Marian."

His features twisted in a grimace of pain at the mention of the name. Seren tensed, fearing that it could set him off again. Her next words were spoken in a hurry, for fear of being misunderstood and interrupted.

"I do not doubt your word, nor your honour. You are a warrior, I can see that – even though there are none like you around here. But I have to say this: you escaping my custody is a risk I cannot take. My father is the hangman of this village – it should have fallen to him to execute you. But he is gone to Esgaroth. And we – I – need the money that the mayor is prepared to offer for your death. I am ready to do what it takes to earn it. I have never killed someone, but I have to try. Out of respect for you, I will do my best." Then, noticing that she had started to wring her hands in nervousness, Seren laid them on her knees and pretended to straighten the wrinkles on her skirts. "Father taught me well," she added for herself. "I will not fail."

The elf was watching her with something akin to pity in his eyes.

"Then I am all the more sorry for my words," he said quietly. "And for having, in some way, forced you to shoulder this role. I would like to think that, had we met under different circumstances, I would have offered to help. Now all I can do is arm myself with patience and gratefulness, and walk up the planks obediently. I will not give you trouble, I promise.

His eyes sparkled suddenly as he uncrossed his legs, moving forward from his position to kneel before her, and bowed his head.

"On my honour and on Marian's name I swear this. As for my own name…"

He touched his hand to his heart, looking at Seren from under his blood-matted hair. "I am Beriadan."


	7. Chapter 6

- Chapter 6 -

"Did you know her well?"

Seren shook her head. "Not really. We have met on occasion, but never talked… I regret it now."

The elf – Beriadan – watched her with his head tilted to the side, perhaps wondering whether she was sincere or simply saying what she thought he wanted to hear. There was still wariness between them, as peace was fresh and conceded over a sacrifice of pride.

Seren gave a half-shrug at the thought. She hadn't mentioned all the rumours she had heard about the young woman; the slander and mockery she had witnessed. She had never given them much credit, if not because of her distrust of the villagers then out of lack of interest for anything that did not immediately concern her own troubles. Thinking about it now, Seren realized that there must have been something special about the young woman that had led an elf to love her; that her life must have been filled with magic and moments that most people – including herself – could not even begin to imagine. Perhaps Seren, too absorbed into her own problems, would have benefitted from a glimpse of that world, and from the presence of Marian in her life… Maybe they could've even been friends. Now she would never know.

"She must have been a good person," she said. The words seemed too plain in comparison to what she imagined Beriadan's feelings to be; but to say more would have been hypocritical.

"She was."

The conversation seemed to dwindle into silence and Seren used the occasion, once again, to steal a glimpse of the elf. He was incredibly handsome by her standards, even with the numerous cuts on his face and the black eye. He was dabbing a cloth she had found in a basin of cold water, wiping away the blood marring his skin. The gashes beneath only seemed deeper and more painful; but not once did he wince.

Seren shifted on her feet. "Can I get you something else?" she asked, attempting to rekindle their conversation and wondering what she could possibly offer to a condemned man. This was no tavern she was running, she reminded herself, and the little hospitality she could display would undoubtedly be tainted by the prospect of the rope; but to at least ask seemed appropriate.

"I have more than I would have hoped for," he replied with a small smile. "Except for your forgiveness. I…" He hesitated, tilting his head to the side. "I had not realized. How sick is she?"

Seren startled; the expression on her face must have been terrible, for Beriadan pressed his eyes shut in what Seren recognized as an inwardly chiding, something she had inflicted upon herself more often than she could remember. His lips formed a word she could not understand, a hissing, annoyed sound she guessed to be a curse.

"I see that I have caused you distress, I apologize." Beriadan's voice was slow and soft, as one would speak to a frightened animal. "I did not mean to eavesdrop, but your voices carried to the cellar." He seemed genuinely puzzled at her reaction, eager to appease. He pressed the cloth against his heart and then hastily dropped it as he realized it was still soaked. "I did not realize that the concept of privacy may be different between our two people. Please forgive me - I could not help it."

Seren noticed that his tunic now wore a dark stain where the water from the cloth had seeped into the fabric, and that his face was still dripping from his attempts to wipe the blood away. A confused Beriadan was a strangely endearing sight, but she suddenly remembered what had triggered the scene: the mention of her mother's illness, the anticipation of seeing pity in his eyes and the sharp reminder that despite their truce, all was not well in the world. The realization sobered her up.

"I forgot the stories about the elves' superior senses," she said in a controlled, deliberately measured voice, trying to overcome the embarrassment at the thought of him hearing her every move around the house, as one listens to mice scuttling in the walls. "I did not realize you could hear us so well… From now on, I will do my best to speak more quietly."

"No! No, it is I who am sorry."

He wiped his face on his sleeve, then picked up the now dirty cloth and tossed it back into the basin in a dejected gesture. They were going round in circles, Seren realized; both apologetic and clumsy, and both tired of being either. She watched him retreat into his corner of the cellar, shoulders hunched and knees drawn to his chest; surrendering most of the territory of the small room as if to amend for the involuntary intrusion into her private life. The misery conveyed by the submissive posture, so unfitting of him, brutally reminded her of his own situation, much more deserving of wallowing in pity than hers.

"She will make it, I know it," Seren said quietly, looking away. With feigned calm she wiped her hands on her skirt, took the time to examine and smooth out the wrinkles on the dirty fabric. "She… she has been ill for a while now. Things have not been easy, but… you know… We always pull through." She looked Beriadan in the eye, smiled even - though it cost her considerable effort with the lump stuck in her throat. It was a wonder she was not trembling in exhaustion, she thought, as the mastering of her demeanour cost her every ounce of self-control she possessed. Somehow she needed to appear unbothered right then, unshaken by the knowledge that he knew, that _everyone_ knew how dire their situation was.

"I would help," he offered. "I know little about healing, but what knowledge I possess is yours."

"Thank you," she replied with all the dignity she could muster, "but there is nothing you can do. Only her remedies can help her..."

The implication of the words hung in the air between them – the price for the medicine, and the means to secure it.

"You must do what you can," he said. "When the time comes, do not speak for me. I will face my responsibilities, and you must face yours." His sad smile softened the severity of his declaration. "Is she getting better?"

Seren nodded and looked him in the eye: "Yes," she lied.

oOoOo

Her mother was not getting better. At the very best, her state could be described as stationary, but Seren knew deep inside that the episodes of harmless madness and delirium had become increasingly frequent over the last weeks. There was no gratitude in the moments they shared, no recognition, only the ever-enduring sense of duty that she somehow managed to make last. Seren cried that night, after she had gone to bed and tucked herself in under the tattered covers. For the first time in a long while she felt tears burn their way to her eyes and let them go, smothering her hiccups with a mouthful of fabric so that neither her mother or Beriadan could hear her.

She was so tired… Worn-out, diluted, like the greenish volutes that faded out into a watery tea from the few last leaves she shook out of the pot. She made promises to herself – that today she would eat her fill, that she would sleep enough to feel rested, that she would catch a moment of free time to do something she liked… But she always ended up postponing those small rewards; there was always a better use for food that had to be rationed, and free time that should be spent by her mother's side. She would rise in the morning with the fear that Cillan had gone during the night, sometimes waking up while it was still dark just to listen to the raspy, uneven breathing.

But what she did was not working. The tea, the warmth, the cool cloth on a sweaty forehead and the constant surveillance; Seren had done it all as instructed. She _had_ to be going about it all wrong, only no-one would point out where she was making mistakes, and she did not have the luxury of learning on the job.

And there it was again, the heart-wrenching coughing sound, and the broken voice that called her name. She contemplated ignoring it; for once, just staying in her bed and pretending she couldn't hear - out of strength, out of ideas. Her mother did not see her tears as Seren went to sit by her side. She stroked Cillan's skeletal hand in silence, squeezing in rhythm with the coughing fits, waiting for the night to dwindle into dawn and for the daylight to bring her courage.

"What is it?" her mother whispered suddenly, eyes opening in surprise. "Can you hear it?"

Seren nodded. From the depths of the cellar, rising from beneath the ground, drifted a song. Cool like fresh water and flowing like a steady wind, it filtered through the holes between the planks and relieved the smothering silence. It soothed; it mended. From his makeshift cell, Beriadan was helping the only way he could.

"Sleep, mama," Seren whispered and smiled, sliding to the floor and resting her head on the edge of the mattress, "it's only the wind."

"It's beautiful," Cillan marvelled tiredly and closed her eyes.

"Yes," Seren agreed quietly. "Yes it is. Now sleep. The dawn is still far away."

The lullaby trickled on.

oOoOo

It was another cold, damp day announcing the coming of winter. The small, worn-out patches of grass that had not yet been trampled into the mud were soaking up the puddles of murky water. The stems were yellow, swollen with liquid; Seren could not dismiss the resemblance to many a man's end on this very place, in the middle of the village, at the hand of her father. The gallows themselves stood lonely in the middle of the desolated clearing, empty but ominous.

She winced as the cold water found a hole between the sole of her boot and the tired leather and poured in. Wriggling her toes in an attempt to get rid of the unwelcome trickle, she skipped over yet another puddle as she made her way to the gathering. Her stomach growled at the smells wafting out of the tavern, where everyone was getting ready to welcome the village elders and most important members after their duty on the day's Council was done. The tavern owner himself would be attending, as his establishment served as the second most important meeting place in the village thanks to the frequent visits of the mayor and his friends.

There would be fires, roasted meat, and ale - Seren had never drunk any, but the appreciative sighs of the men returning home from the tavern made it seem a drink worthy of kings. She sighed quietly, turning her eyes away with reluctance for fear that her wistful look was seen. It was like when she was little, sitting on the platform under the gallows and staring at the lights, imagining that she was seated at a table inside and waiting to be served, that the sumptuous meals were meant for her, and would arrive anytime now. That the wood beneath her was cushions and the mocking stares looks of admiration.

She snapped back to the matter of the trial as Murdoch walked to the centre of the village and up the stairs of the gallows, turning his back to the horizontal beam that loomed above the platform to look at the small crowd gathered below. His big, strong hands clasped a crispy parchment, so brand new that Seren could swear the ink was still glistening. He unravelled it and, squinting, read out:

"On the matter of Pierce Sallow's murder," Murdoch proclaimed, "committed before witnesses," he read out a list of names, "and the subsequent trial of the murderer, er... an elf of name unknown, those in favour of justice by hanging raise your hands."

The crowd moved with unease, bodies huddled together, shameful eyes darting towards the woods that lay in the distance; fearful mayhap that the fate decided here seemed above their station or authority; or perhaps was it a faint regret that something so beautiful had to be destroyed. Hands rose to the sky and, from her position at the edge of the clearing, Seren saw Rhett cast her a venomous look, his own arm extended and steady.

She shook with repressed rage. It had all already been decided before the farce of a Council had even started; perhaps it had been discussed around a mug of ale, bought with coin or slammed along with someone's head against a counter in a darkened shop, but no-one dared leave their hands at their side or speak in Beriadan's favour. Marian's torture would remain unearthed.

She could feel her self-control straining. She imagined their faces if she could speak and tell what she knew; if she could call for him to testify. There would be shock, there would be horror and anger and blood. And justice would be done. She remembered Beriadan's request - but still, what a sweet dream...

But then, what of them, the righteous but poor family of the jobless hangman? What of the proverbial boots they would not earn, not to mention the money? Seren clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth together until the muscles in her jaw hurt.

The moment was gone.

The people scattered about and she stayed, casting the few remaining men a reproachful glare. Rhett grinned, a malevolent grimace in a joyless face; Dion nodded, as though they were meeting under civilized circumstances not involving gallows and rope in any manner, and only Murdoch had the grace to appear troubled.

"A job well done," she said quietly as he walked past her. "An example, surely, for all other villagers aspiring to unblemished justice."

The acid was as much for her own compromising conscience as for theirs, and for Beriadan's selflessness. If only he had been detestable, angry or ungrateful... She could have remained silent with her heart at ease.

"What's this about?" Murdoch hissed. "We have an agreement. You do your job, you have your money. Or does the elf claim he's innocent? There are witnesses, in case you haven't heard."

"Pity they didn't see everything," Seren said. "Like what really happened to Marian."

Murdoch rubbed the bridge of his nose with a hairy hand. "The girl drowned herself."

"Pierce _raped_ her, for the Powers' sake!" Seren glanced around, but no-one seemed to be curious of their conversation. She and Murdoch were the only ones still standing outside, aside from the welcoming lights cast by the tavern onto the blotchy grass of the clearing. "She killed herself in horror!" She shook her head. "He was your friend... You must've known. But don't worry," she added with a sour smile, "I will not speak up, and play my part in this as planned. I just hope your friendship was worth it."

Murdoch shook his head, but the gesture seemed more like wariness than disdain. Seren could not pity this man who could so conveniently turn a blind eye to the wrongdoings of his minions and still have the guts to reclaim justice when they got what they deserved; but she wondered, for the first time, what he had felt upon understanding how far Pierce had gone. Did he question, at least once, whether it had been his own tyrannical authority that had led the man to believe he could take what he wanted?

"Look. What's past is past. What do you want to trouble the dead for?"

"The elf's still alive," she pointed out.

"Not for long," he deadpanned. "Think of the living. You and your family are in dire need from what I gather. Say what," he said, fishing into his tunic for a purse, "I give you now an advance for the job. Get what you need from the shops, grab a little something from the tavern – I reckon there's plenty to go around."

Seren stiffened when he reached out to awkwardly pat her shoulder, withdrawing his hand with an embarrassment that showed how much he had hoped for the gesture to appear sincere. The pouch in his hand looked heavy with coin.

Beriadan would approve. Only, would Mother, if she knew?

_But you'll never know_, Seren thought as she stepped towards the lights of the tavern. _This secret will be buried with Beriadan and with me_. _We will take it into our graves, sooner or later._


	8. Chapter 7

- Chapter 7 -

Seren walked briskly, watching her feet as she climbed the slippery path to her house, her packages tucked safely under her arm. She looked up, checking the proximity of her destination, glanced down again and, realizing what she saw, stopped dead in her tracks.

Beriadan was sitting on the porch, head tilted back, hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture suggested a submissive wait, but the mere fact that he was out of the cellar, out _free_, sent shivers of apprehension down Seren's spine. She closed the distance to the porch with hurried steps, fighting the urge to run and shove him back into the house.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, out of breath, and winced as the words came out laced with accusation.

Beriadan looked at her. His face, still bruised from the beating, broke into a meek smile.

"Forgive me for having taken this liberty," he said quietly with a short gesture to the surroundings, lowering his chin in submission. "I have assumed that you believed my word, when I swore I would not run and, not hearing you return, decided to wait for you up here rather than downstairs. Do not worry," he added with a tilt towards the village, "I have checked that no-one would see me, er, _wander about_."

Seren bit her tongue and tried to come up with a polite reply.

"That was very... considerate of you," she offered and glanced towards the house once again, hoping he would take the hint. He did.

"The night is beautiful," he said and got up, brushing the dust off the back of his breeches. "I could smell it falling from down in the cellar. I would have asked," he added, nodding to emphasize his sincerity, "but I did not know when you would return – or whether you would return this night at all."

She shrugged: "Where else would I be?"

"Forgive me." His voice was soft and chagrined. He raised a hand to lay it on his heart. "I meant no disrespect and certainly not to cause you fear."

Seren shifted on her feet. "You have to understand," she began, "how much is at stake here." And, realising that her words implied a harder situation for her than for him, she felt herself redden in shame. "Sorry – that was not... Damn it - I didn't mean it like that."

She sank down on the porch right next to where he had been sitting minutes ago and lay down her packages. She rubbed her face with her hands, joining them in a gesture of prayer at her lips as she tried to find the words. The finality of his fate dawned upon her.

"It's not fair," she whispered.

He smiled as he sat down beside her. "On the contrary, I find it a just ending. I am a murderer, you are my guard and my executioner to be; and yet here we are, conversing under the sky like equals. I do not resent our roles, and only feel gratitude for the Powers that placed my fate in such gentle hands. I do realize that I am not entitled to any favours, being a prisoner." He lifted a slender finger to silence her as Seren opened her mouth to protest. "Yes, I am your prisoner – there is no denying it, for all the immense kindness you have shown to me despite what I have done. You are still young, and are loath, I understand, to carry out this duty now that we are… friends, for lack of a better term."

Seren quickly nodded, almost beaming. She hadn't dared calling him that before, but now that he had said the word, she agreed wholeheartedly, feeling proud that he would honour her with such a title.

"We _are_ friends," she whispered.

"We are."

She watched as he looked up again, staring wistfully into the dark sky, his expression unguarded and adoring.

"It ends tomorrow, does it not?" he asked quietly. She nodded again, unwilling to speak as the events of the Council came back to her. "I wanted to see the stars one last time. They are the guide of my people, our comfort in the darkness since the beginning of our time on this earth. Look," he said suddenly, pointing towards a twinkling star in the West, "that is Eärendil, the Mariner. On his ship, the Vingilotë, he sails the sky every night." He wrapped his arms around him and told her about Eärendil, about the Silmarils and Elbereth, and the Blessed Lands in the West.

Seren listened raptly, absorbing the lore he recounted in a voice filled with love for his history and his people. The dawn came too soon and drank the night's darkness, swallowing the stars and leaving the sky bloodless.

"It is time for me to head back," Beriadan muttered. Pale skin against pale hair, he seemed as colourless as the rising day.

"I am sorry." There was little else she could say, her mind still ablaze with his stories.

"Do not be. You gave me hope when all I saw was darkness – to have had and lost it is better than never to have found it at all. Remember this," he said, turning to face her, his pale face inches from hers, "remember this when they will judge you, that it is my decision and theirs that forced you into this situation. You are young and you are strong. Forgive yourself, and know I do not blame you." He touched a hand to her temple with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. "Survive."

oOoOo

Silk. Seren pulled the rope out of her father's chest, hoisting the thin bundle with the utmost care reserved for a thing of sentimental value. It was smooth under her hands, the errant strands of cobwebs sticking together under her touch; she rolled them away with her fingertips to leave the fabric unblemished and shiny. She put respect into every gesture, thinking of Beriadan and of everything she owed him – small things and precious moments she would treasure all her life.

She rested her elbow on the corner of the chest and clutched the rope against her as she glanced towards the window. The sun was already high in the sky, shining into the room through the unwashed panes of the kitchen window. Seren willed it to stop, to slow down, but she knew that even as she started to weave the noose, it kept racing towards its apogee, counting down the time they had left. She worked in silence, her task unlike any other hand-busying chores she knew, fingers bending the pliant rope into its deadly form. This was the last step she had to take; everything else was ready, and nothing more stood between her and her duty.

The gallows awaited.

Holding the noose in her hand, Seren wound the rope around her elbow, forming a loop of the length of her forearm. Several loops were necessary to form a bundle that she then balanced on the edge of the chest before pushing herself off the ground and dusting off her skirts. Her hands felt strangely numb yet steady, and she was surprised at how well she was holding together, a gloomy pride of sorts, considering how close the execution was. She reached into the chest one last time.

The cloak fell onto her shoulders, heavy and a stark black against the pale wood that covered the floor of the room. It was too long for her height and trailed in the dust as she walked towards the door of the cellar. Daylight fell onto the descending staircase. Beriadan looked up from his corner.

"It is time," she said.

They walked in silence. She hadn't bound his hands, caring little of what the villagers and Murdoch thought about it – her duty consisted in executing him, and additional cruelty was not involved in the contract as far as she was concerned. The wind played with her cloak and his blond hair, touching one to the other as though to reconcile them. Beriadan smiled when she looked at him, wincing slightly as his broken lip hurt and then smiling again in apology. It did not feel like the end, but rather like a walk with a friend.

The distant murmur of the crowd grew closer as they neared the gallows, coming out of a small side street onto the clearing under both fearful and fascinated stares. Seren met their eyes, defying them as she headed towards the stairs at Beriadan's side, adjusting her pace to match his – not preceding nor following, but side by side, like equals. They must've made an odd couple, a girl in a cloak made for a man far taller than she was and a worse-for-wear elf who seemed almost impatient. He extended an arm to help her up the stairs, holding the dreaded cloak so that she would not trip.

The whispers hushed when they reached the platform and Beriadan stood to his full height, his pale hair billowing in the wind. He eyed them with disinterest while she tied up the rope, nervous and in a hurry to get the knot right so that she would not have to ask him for help - even though she suspected he would not utter a word as he tied the rope himself with steady hands if she did.

He stepped over to the trap door, bowed so that she could pull the noose over his head and adjust it around his neck.

"Not too tight?" she asked with a lump in her throat, grateful that no speech was required of her before the execution was carried out.

He smiled. "You have gentle hands. I am in good care."

The lump in her throat gave a lurch, spilling into sobs as she threw herself into his arms. She buried her nose into his chest, clutching his tunic in convulsed hands; the pain did not subside, burning fiercely in her lungs and crushing her heart. Seren could feel him caress her hair and whisper into her ear, but she could not bring herself to listen to his soothing words; why, why did he have to be so kind? In a few seconds he would be dead, lost to her, a beautiful thing destroyed forever. And the most vexing part was that world would go on without him as if he had never existed.

"You must do it now," Beriadan whispered into her ear, insistently, as though he had been repeating the same words over and over. He gave her shoulder a light shake, gently prying her arms from around his waist. "Seren, you must do it now."

"I don't want to." She looked at him with her eyes filled with tears. "Beriadan, don't go."

He smiled again and wiped a tear off her cheek with his thumb. "Remember what I said," he replied. "You must do your part – for you and your mother."

Seren nodded and stepped aside. Not looking, she reached out for the lever; the wooden handle fit into her palm, cool and smooth, polished by her father's hand.

"Farewell, Seren. Your father would be proud." He tilted his head back, as if offering his neck to the rope, and stared into the sky. "Marian. _Meleth_..."

She pulled the lever. A short drop, a crack, a swing of the rope and he was gone. The wind howled above the clearing.

"Farewell, Beriadan."

oOoOo

The wind had died, replaced by a cold rain that had assaulted the village and now drowned clearings and roads in icy water. From her place on the porch, Seren watched its level rise, swallowing muddy footprints and threatening to invade the first step of the few stairs leading to the door. She drew her knees towards her, tucking her skirts between her thighs and her ankles. She was grateful for the bad weather.

It had been two days since the execution, and she still found herself staring at her hands, wondering how they did not tremble. She had woken up on the first night after Beriadan's death, tiptoed over to her mother's room to check on her and only then remembered and asked herself how she had managed to fall asleep at all. The feeling of grief was still fresh, stinging whenever she was not busy and fully absorbed by her task; an empty bowl on the table would remind her of him, or the mound of earth outside her window where she had buried the ropes that had served to bind him and the strips of cloth that still bore his blood.

As for Beriadan himself... In between the whispers of the rain, if she strained her ear, Seren could hear the creaking of the rope that swung under his weight. She found comfort in the thought that he would not care about what became of him after his death and in the certainty that he had reached a better place - perhaps those lands in the West he had told her about. But those kingdoms did not allow mortals in their midst... He wasn't there, then, but somewhere he and Marian could meet again.

At least his body was safe from scavengers – Seren had made sure of that, stuffing crow-repelling herbs bought with some of the earned coin into his tunic. Murdoch had held his promise – they had enough money to survive for a month or two, by which time her father should have returned; but she had refused the hangman's privilege. Beriadan's body would not be buried bare-footed.

She sighed, watching the cloud formed by her warm breath vanish into the air and listening to the rain. Without Beriadan, the house felt empty, and she took to spending her time on the porch, avoiding the silent rooms and only returning from time to time to check on Cillan. Outside, the whisper of the rain was hypnotic, a steady rhythm hidden in the falling droplets. If she still had her lute, Seren could've tried to remember that song he had sung...

She smiled suddenly, unfolding her legs to place them on the lower step, positioning the imaginary lute in her lap; fingers found their place on the invisible neck, plucked intangible strings. Slowly, through false notes and several attempts at finding the correct height, she managed to resuscitate the melody and Beriadan's lullaby sprang back to life.

He was dead, the kind elf that used to dwell in her cellar and tell her about the stars. The voice that had sung to her tired mother would never sound again, and those sad eyes would remain closed forever - but the song returned him to her side, smiling over her shoulder as he watched her remember him.

The sound of footsteps interrupted her playing.

Seren looked up to the path that led to her house. Through the misty curtain of the rain emerged the silhouette of a man, tall and looming, a dark cloak swirling around his feet as he walked and a hood hiding his features. Seren imagined for an instant that he was Justice itself, coming remind her that her life was owed to others' death; she would have to look him in the eye and confess her deeds. But she dreaded that instant – because of the pain it would cause him.

Her father had returned.


	9. Chapter 8

- Chapter 8 -

He did not know - yet.

Seren cast a glance over her shoulder, beyond the kitchen and towards her parents' room where her father sat by her mother's bed and gently explained where he'd been. He'd taken a road around the village, preferring shorter paths to his house and avoiding the heart of the settlement; but it would not be long before he noticed the body swinging from the gallows that had not hung there when he'd gone away, and the rope missing from his chest. And, though it had always been understood that his trade would one day be hers, Seren doubted he would take lightly to her anticipated initiation.

But those concerns aside, they now had some money. As a second blessing, her father had made it home safely and even Cillan, who had been fighting for months to retain what was left of her sanity and life force, had managed to recognize her husband's face when he had knelt by her bedside; Seren knew a sign of hope when she saw one.

But despite all the good news, she could find no peace of mind.

It wasn't guilt, at least not how she knew it; but rather the uneasy feeling of having taken more than she should have and of owing more than she had given. If lives had a price, she felt that Beriadan's was gold against her own copper-worthy existence, and the difference weighed heavily on her conscience.

The rain kept on falling, but something had changed, as though the water had reached a level where it could drown out sound. The village below had fallen even more silent than it'd been on such a dreary day. Driven by a premonition, Seren got up from the porch and took a few steps down the road.

The elves were here. Even from this distance there was no mistaking the silver-cloaked procession that rode into the clearing for mortals - too noble, too proud, radiating contempt and grief from every scarce gesture. Was Beriadan's family amongst them? If they were, would they listen to her? Seren remembered Beriadan's stories about the Silmarils and the feuds they had ignited, and shuddered as she quickened her pace down the road. No matter how much she despised some of the people living here, no-one deserved to die because of her. If a sword had to fall on someone's neck, then let it be hers; today she could go with the knowledge that her family would not lack in anything in the upcoming months, and that her mother would be taken care of. She stopped to look back to her house; but her parents were not looking for her. She resumed her journey.

The mud was slippery beneath her feet, squelching and sliding under her weight and splashing onto her skirts and ankles. Someone was speaking, and she struggled to single out the words amongst the rain and the noise she was making.

"I have come to reclaim his body, as I am in right to do as his King. And, as such, I demand justice in his name, against the one amongst you who dared lay a hand on one belonging to my realm."

The elf who spoke wore a crown of vines and berries, but the fruits and leaves that once were red and golden had faded in colour, as though grieving with their wearer; they stood out, black and brown, thorns poking out from beneath shrivelled leaves, against his golden hair. He was the image of dignity and grief; he was the Elvenking, and Beriadan's liege. Seren lowered her head, unwilling to appear proud or defiant.

"It was me - I killed him."

In the silence that followed, Seren heard several of the elves exchange mutters of disbelief. The King himself did not believe her, she realized as she stole another glance of his face. He sized her up, his mouth thinning in displeasure. Seren could understand that; a few days ago, she would not have thought herself capable of it either, but need had a way of cornering people into showing their darker side. She now had proof, though – anyone had it in them to kill.

"Who are you?"

The question rang out, its underlying meaning clear. He was demanding to know why she was wasting his time; or perhaps he needed her to deny her involvement, to reassure him that the villagers did not fall so low as to have a child do a man's dirty work. Emotions ran deep in his eyes: anger, pain, but also infinite sadness and a will to understand, and this gave her the courage to explain rather than fling herself to her knees and beg for the King's forgiveness.

Seren looked into his eyes, her resolve wavering under his scrutiny. "I am the hangman's daughter."

It was his time to flinch, almost imperceptibly – no doubt he was starting to understand what had happened. She continued and as she spoke, her voice gained in strength, fed by the same bitterness and resignation that had been hers when she had pulled that lever.

"I carried out the sentence that was pronounced against Beriadan for the murder of a man. I did so in my father's stead and under the authority given to those of my trade."

The Elvenking closed his eyes, his brows knitting together in a mask of grief. "So it is true." He dismounted, abandoning the reins on the steed's neck and stepping towards Seren. He towered above her but his attention seemed to have wandered elsewhere. "He did not listen," he whispered for his people to hear. "and went against my advice after all. Reckless... and unfortunate."

"He loved Marian," Seren replied quietly. "Her death and his deeds had nothing to do with fortune." She realized her brazenness and braced herself for a sharp reply, but the King's demeanour softened at her words. He lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

"You knew him well," he said – more a question than a statement, and Seren nodded.

"We were friends... briefly, before I... before he died."

"Friends with a murderer? Why?"

If there was taunting in his words Seren chose to ignore it, for his question was one she had answered for herself some time ago. "Because despite of what he'd done he was a good person, a kind being. I could not hate him – in his place, I might have done the same thing. Justice had to be done..." She sent a pointed look towards Murdoch, who was trying to maintain his bravado and still remain hidden by the tavern's awning, "and I know his was the only way. I regret his death, if that's what you're asking, but if I had to, I'd do it again."

The Elvenking shook his head, but whether it was at her stubbornness or in disbelief, she could not tell. "Justice... I came here seeking it, but it is denied to me, for I will not exact revenge upon one so young – you are but a child..."

Seren bit her lip. "That's also what Beriadan had said." Sadness washed over her once again at the memory of his face, and she lowered hers to hide her own grief.

The King reached out to push her chin up, his gesture gentle but firm. His eyes mirrored her pain. "This I know, however – he would not have acted without reason. Tell me _why_ he died. Tell me everything."

Seren hesitated. She had offered her silence as part of her deal with Murdoch and received payment. She longed to expose his part in the story, if only as a vengeance for the unnumbered humiliations inflicted upon her family over the years; but if she broke her word, what little honour was still possessed by those of her trade would be tarnished.

"I cannot," she said eventually, struggling to keep her gaze on the King's face as his expression darkened.

"You refuse to speak?" he asked in disbelief, "even as you claim to be Beriadan's friend? Will you not honour his memory by revealing the truth about his death?" He crossed his arms, and Seren felt the strength of his willpower as he appraised her. "If it is a monetary incentive that you are suggesting, I advise you not to play with me, child. I am disposed to show you kindness, but do not test my patience."

Seren crossed her arms in turn, seething from his accusation. "Keep your money!" she spat. "And punish me as you will, but I gave my word not to speak of what happened. Foolishly, perhaps, but I am bound to it nevertheless." She saw Murdoch nod in satisfaction in the tavern's doorway; the realization that he was getting his way stung, but she was helpless to prevent it.

"Pierce was a bastard, that's what happened."

The words, amplified by the uneasy silence that had fallen after their exchange, made Seren startle. She turned around, following the crowd's stare towards the lone figure leaning against one of the houses that lined the village centre. Dion grinned at the sudden attention. He pushed himself off the wall, winked at Seren as she gaped at him.

"You fuck!" Rhett's bellow simmered down to a growl as he met the elves' cold eyes. "I'll kill you!" He walked along at Dion's pace like a warg in a cage mirroring the captor's movements with bloodlust in its eyes and waiting for the opportunity to strike.

"Now, now." Dion smirked, walking through the crowd as it parted before him. "You might want to watch your mouth, upsetting the elvenfolk didn't turn out too well for your family."

"Dion, why?"

Murdoch, red-faced and wound up with what seemed to be righteous anger, finally walked out of the tavern. He squinted in the pale daylight, shaking his head like a disappointed father before a stubborn son, but Seren sensed wariness in his demeanour as though he was testing the waters. "Why insult the dead? Pierce was your friend."

"Why?" Seren echoed his question. Dion the gallows-scum hater, the smart-mouthed, shifty sidekick had not been her first hope for backup.

He walked up to her.

"I'm not doing this for you, lass," he whispered into her ear, "and I don't care for honour, either, although..." she saw him look over her shoulder towards the Elvenking, "some reward would be welcome. No? Pity." He turned to face the crowd.

"Then I guess it is time for the final act. Pierce, our dear Pierce, was a sleazy bastard who thought with his dick – come on, ladies, you all knew it – and he forced himself upon one woman too many. The elf killed him for that. And our dear mayor here, Murdoch, hoped to silence anyone who knew so he wouldn't lose his prestige."

"Liar!" Murdoch roared and balled his meaty hands into fists that shook with rage. "Lying, filthy son of a bitch!" he hissed.

"You're right about that," Dion agreed readily, shrugging, "my mother was a whore. But I'm not the one who's got to answer to the people here. Not to mention the King." He shot the elves a look over his shoulder. "I reckon he must be pretty pissed at you right now."

"You... you have no power here!" Murdoch yelled as the elves moved to encircle him. He spun around, eyes wide with fear, swinging blindly at the cold faces that surrounded him.

"I have power wherever I am needed," the Elvenking's voice rang out. "Seize him."

Seren watched in fascination as the elven warriors took him down, their movements swift and merciful. Murdoch fought under their grip, foam at his lips as he yelled obscenities and curses. She looked up to see Rhett's face twisted in hatred as he took one step back, pushing his way through the stunned crowd, and took off towards the woods.

"My Lord?" The warrior who spoke seemed to question the King with his eyes, glancing towards the quickly fading figure. The bow he raised held a notched arrow.

The Elvenking shook his head. "He will find his just reward in Mirkwood."

oOoOo

"I believe you are now free from your word."

Seren felt his presence before she saw him; the power that radiated from him was not unlike the attraction she had felt towards Beriadan, a charisma that secured her trust and affection before she even thought of giving it. The Elvenking was older, though, gentler in his spells, whatever they were. She felt her mind clear as he released her from his influence.

"Will you tell me, then, of his death?" he asked.

"I would... Only there is not much to add." Seren looked towards the village where Dion was supervising the reunion of an extraordinary Council. "He got his reward, after all," she remarked quietly. "He's going to become the new mayor." She caught his look and his wink, and averted her eyes.

"Time will tell if he is worthy," came the reply. Seren almost cringed at those overused words of wisdom, until he added: "He, too, paid a price with Marian's death... He does look a little like her."

Seren blinked, looked at Dion once again. There, under his apparent carefree demeanour and the jesting lurked a seriousness she had never noticed. She found control in the seemingly theatrical gestures, sharpness in his eyes that spoke of hard-earned experience. He grinned at something someone said, and she saw Marian's face.

"I still have a debt towards you," she said. "For the life I took and the reward I collected. My life is yours, if you want it." She felt strangely calm, detached, as though the decision had released her from her guilt. What worth her life possessed she did not know, but it gave her purpose.

The Elvenking smiled, warming Seren up inside. "I accept your allegiance. I will claim it in time," he said with a nod. "One day, I will hold you to your word. But not now."

_Not now..._ Seren nodded in turn. There were conversations to be had, tears of joy to be spilled and new paths to be taken for all of them. There were destinies to fulfil or change, and she had yet to decide where hers lay.


	10. Epilogue

- Epilogue -

The elves left the village as quietly as they came. Ahead rode the King, his hand steady on the neck of his steed, his mind finally at peace. The warriors followed, escorting their fallen comrade to his final destination. Their silver heads were bowed in respect, their weapons unsullied by the villagers' blood as Justice had been done in agreement of the laws between them and the people of the settlement.

They took Murdoch with them; the rain drowned out his cries, as though denying him the very right to speak. No villager ever saw him again, though rumour went that he served his penance in the Dark Woods until the Elvenking deemed his fault redeemed.

Rhett's body was found on the banks of the black river that ran through the woods. It bore no mark of elven weapons, and his face, twisted in horror even after his death, served to warn the children away from Mirkwood.

Dion remained the mayor of the village for many years. Under his care the settlement prospered, commercial agreements were made and stores and trades maintained even as Darkness claimed the lands.

Selvig helped Dion throughout the years. He and Cillan remained in the village, gaining respect in the eyes of the people with the new mayor's help and their daughter's reputation.

Seren honoured her promise to the Elvenking several years later – but that is another story.

- The End -


End file.
